


Careful With That Axe, Eugene

by crimsonepitaph



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:26:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1566245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonepitaph/pseuds/crimsonepitaph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes unexpected circumstances for Dean to understand. Written for the following prompt over at <strong>ohsam</strong> :<i></i></p><div class="center">
  <p>S9. While Magnus has Sam tied up he continues to cut and taunt Sam. Sam holds it together - he's been tortured before. It's not until Magnus threatens to possess him with one of the demons (or angel) he's been holding captive that he totally falls apart - begging, pleading for him not to do it. Dean witnesses (and now understands) just how emotionally messed up Sam is.</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	Careful With That Axe, Eugene

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you (and eternal gratitude) to the wonderful borgmama1of5 for the speedy beta.
> 
> Spoilers up to 9x16. All recognizable characters and mythology elements belong to their creators.

It’s the little things.

How Sam’s skin already knows, welcomes the feel of a blade sinking in.

His flesh, just canvas, painted in scars, blotches of crimson etching new pain into him.

How Sam counts.

Counts when he feels fingers scraping, burning against his cheek.

Counts to ten, to a hundred, to infinity.

Years, centuries stretched into cycles of seconds, into layers of skin and muscle peeling off inch by inch, into scalding water trickling down on him - Hell’s attempt at purifying him.

Smoke – bones mincing under fingertips, fine powder that isn’t fluid – but it wants to be.

How Sam knows torture.

Magnus is just a kid. Lucifer, a master with fingers tangled in the strings.

How Sam knows pain, how his scale doesn’t stop at ten, how it’s never too much, never enough, he takes it all in.

Magnus smiles, dark, crooked little grin, digs the point deeper, just above Sam’s ribs.

Sam grunts. Dean flinches for him.

But Magnus sees.

Dean’s shouting is pointless, the struggle against his chains, the fury, the sheer will – watching his little brother, tortured, flayed right before him.

Magnus sees – and Dean doesn’t, Dean’s immediate concern is a heartbeat – a body, an illusion, breathing, human, alive – when the greatest torture isn’t physical – it’s Sam’s mind, caving in.

Magnus laughs. He puts the knife down, signals a servant – the _zookeeper_ , it seems – who comes closer, leans in – Magnus mutters, but Sam doesn’t hear – throws a glance towards Dean, who’s equal parts pissed and done with the world, a bond broken carved soul-deep into him.

Moments later, a girl - blond, fair skin – comes in. It’s instinct. Maybe Gadreel, his body learning, growing accustomed to it. Sam knows immediately. She’s an angel, a twisted contortion of an ideal – the picture in a book, the wish – because Magnus is a collector, Magnus loves beautiful things.

Magnus comes closer, strokes Sam’s cheek with his thumb, smearing the blood dripping over it – he whispers, the sound almost lost in Dean’s useless screams.

“Dean doesn’t know, does he? That you thrive on pain, you feel alive for it – it’s control you fear. The lack of it.”

Magnus backs away, puts a hand over the girl’s shoulder, looks straight into Sam’s eyes when he speaks.

“Sam –” Sam flinches, Dean hisses, yanks the chains harder, “No poker face for you. Can’t feel the pain, can you? Not the way I want it.”  Magnus grins. “It’s no fun for me. “

Magnus slithers closer, the girl with him. “New tactic, Winchester – this here is Lucy. She’s an angel. Say yes, Sam. ” Magnus sing-songs his name, elongates the vowel, same ugly tilt of his lips. “Say yes so I can show Dean what torture really is.”

Sam can’t breathe.

Sam, for all the Winchester he is, pleads.

In his mind – doesn’t know if sounds make it past his lips.

Not enough air. Sam drifts. Lets the darkness close in on him.

Sam breaks, and Dean’s right there to see.

***

_Scream, Sam._

_Scream._

The sun melts, the horizon dances. Waves sway with the wind. The sun drowns in the sea. The sun sings. A celebration. Rays, guitar strings.

_Nobody hears you._

_They do._

_They watch._

_Laugh._

_Laugh, child. Mommy’s burning on the ceiling._  
   
Everything.

Reach.

Absolutes, truths. Certainties.

Too afraid to linger in the darkness. Too afraid of it seeping into skin.

Light.

Nothing.

_Voices._

_You’re mine, puppet._

_Sam?_

_Pay attention to me._

Speak. Crawl. There are no more words - there's nothing to mean.

Peace.

Rain.

The sea. Crushing. Endless. Pain, water. Clean.

_You see._

_Same. It’s the same._

_So cry._

_Scream, Sam._

_Scream._

***

Dean watches.

It can’t be. This – this splintered replica, this broken soul before him – it can’t be Sam, it can’t be his brother, it can’t be _Sammy_.

Sam’s good.

Sam’s breathing.

He saved Sam – he was only too happy to accept the guilt.

It didn’t matter. Sam was going to check out on him.

Dean did the right thing.

It doesn’t explain why he feels like blunt nails are hammering into him every time Sam whispers – pleads – _no, don’t, just kill me, please._

Sam isn’t loud.

A lifetime of self-discipline – restraint, a need and not a choice – drips of blood, condemning him. Dean understands every glint in hazel eyes, every tilt of chapped lips. Dean knows that when Sam gets afraid, he grips the gun tighter, lets anger fuel him. Sam did it with Dean’s deal, with the Apocalypse – and Dean can’t understand, can’t read Sammy now – he doesn’t want to believe.

Sam’s eyes are tinted green – there are silent tears rolling down his cheek – minute shakes of his head, muted gasps, Sam’s mind  telling him he can’t breathe – Sam stares, blank, lifeless eyes shimmer, because Sam doesn’t cry for himself.

Sam cries for all the people he killed – for all the evil he did.

Dean knows the good in Sam. He thought he understood what Sam had been living with. Sam’s sins – not so much choices as unavoidable things – the demon blood inside him – always making Sam feel less, weak, unclean.

Meg, shooting Dean – Ruby, a pawn in a game much bigger than him – Bobby, Castiel – an eternity believing he killed the people closest to him. Sam’s mind has never been his own – not completely – there was always someone in the peanut gallery.

Dean holds no illusion that both of them aren’t messed up beyond belief – but until now, he thought he had seen – had gotten the whole picture, a Sam that’s selfish, that just didn’t want to live for him. Now, Dean sees just what he did – took a sledgehammer to glass already blown thin – made a choice for Sam, pulled on his strings.

Right until now, Dean thought it was worth it – even if Sam hated him – because the guilt, the self-loathing and grief were all Dean’s.

Sam thinks it’s just the way he is – that he’s tainted, that there’s simply no hope for him – and Dean was so used to it, so used to Sam not being whole that he ignored it, let himself be convinced by a steady heartbeat.

For better or worse, Dean’s actions have always been his – and maybe Sam should take comfort, because Sam often didn’t have a choice in it – but that’s just it. Sam reasons the world away, right till it comes to him. Maybe he learned it from Dean, maybe Hell wasn’t enough of a punishment to understand what real evil is – but Sam takes it all, the guilt, the pain, the torment – he buries it deeper with each day that passes, lets Dean believe he didn’t fail, that Sammy is still there, that Dean saved him.

Dean yells, feels the chains burrowing into his skin – he doesn’t care, Magnus needs to get away from Sam, Dean needs to get to Sam, needs to take away all the pain etched into his features – needs to protect him, just like he always did.

Dean wants to laugh – tears are already burning his cheeks. He _needs_ Sam to be good, _needs_ Sam beside him – it doesn’t matter that all his brother needed was to have peace.

The chains fall to the floor – Crowley is there somewhere, Dean’s sure of it – but he can’t care right now, can only grip the blade, put all the force he has into the swing. Magnus’ head drops, rolls on the floor, and the girl just watches, slow, satisfied smirk playing on her lips – and Sam, he did it for Sam, but it’s good, it’s so good – that power surging through him – he clings to the Blade, already imagines himself a knight – _Dean_ – slaying, killing, taking pleasure in it – _Dean, drop the blade –_ and Sam’s there, just like he always is, even when Dean’s too blind, too wrapped up in what he feels to see.

Sam pieces himself back together – again – for Dean. Terrified hazel eyes alter to concerned, scared – but only for Dean. Dean gets Sam out of the restraints, or Crowley does it for him – it’s not important, all Dean wants is to get his arms around Sam – say _I’m sorry_ in his own way, gestures and no words, like it’s always been with Dean.

He does – he hugs Sam – and Sam gives in, too exhausted, too drained to do anything else than cling – but maybe he understands, too – Dean’s his brother, Sam _knows_ him, better than Dean knows himself, it seems.

They slide to the floor and Sam doesn’t move – just buries his head in the crook of Dean’s neck – for a brief, self-indulgent reprieve.

Dean tightens his grip, smiles, an imperceptible curve of his lips.

It’s the little things.  



End file.
